


Break

by Lacemaze (Needle_Bones)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11573889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Needle_Bones/pseuds/Lacemaze
Summary: Miles and Waylon find a sculpture on the roof of the Asylum.





	Break

**Author's Note:**

> 'I'm laughing, I'm crying, it feels like I'm dying...'
> 
> I missed Outlast this week, and I wanted something a bit hopeful but also felt like Miles could use a small mental breakdown so... yeah. I'm lowkey considering this camerashipping.

The cold air hit Miles like a train as he stumbled onto the roof with Waylon at his heels. The programmer slammed the door shut behind them and for a moment, he was almost relieved to be outside. And then he saw the sculpture.

It was a massive thing constructed of rust and bone – the bodies of less fortunate inmates bent and broken and strung through the crooked metal slats of bed frames and the wheeled carts that carried gurneys up and down the halls. He could see a slanted husk of a wooden frame here and there between the corpses, thrown together from the splintered legs of desks and the scarred surfaces of work tables.

“Shit...” Waylon shook his head. Over the past few hours, he had almost let himself think he was used to this place, used to the fear, used to the stench of death that soaked into everything... but this was too much on top of everything else he'd been through that evening.

He paced around the left-hand side of the monument – a shrine to the Walrider, if Waylon had to guess – before pausing to scrub his hands over his face. He should be reacting more than he was, he was sure, but the fact of the matter was that he just couldn't bring himself to. He was fairly sure he could be shoved onto the front lines of a war and not feel anything more than this. He'd simply used up all the fear and panic he'd been given for his life.

“Can you believe this?” he asked, mostly out of a need to break the silence. “Miles?”

Waylon looked back. Miles was still near the door with a death-grip on his camera. His grey eyes were wide, misting as he stared up at the construction of metal and human remains. Waylon knew that look. It was a kind of calm, blank panic and it never ended well.

A crow cawed right beside his ear and he scrambled away from the structure. The sun was rising, the first few rays slipping past the start of the treeline and covering the roof, the metal, the blood, the bodies. In the better light, Waylon could see birds picking maggots off strips of skin, pulling at the loops of intestines that stood in for proper ropes, perching on the rusted bed frames used for bracing.

Miles made a small, strangled sound behind him and Waylon turned back to him. A few tears cut through the dirt and blood on his face but aside from that, he was still. Waylon's stomach twisted. Miles had never locked up like this. Hell, he'd been the one keeping them alive most of the night.

“Miles?” Waylon took a half-step closer. “Miles, you're scaring me.”

It was too cold up there. The sun had barely crawled its way past the lowest trees, drenching everything in a sickly orange light. The color hit the metal and stuck, clashing with the red soaking the concrete and cloth around it.

For some damn reason, Miles chose that to focus on. And it was _funny_.

So he laughed, a hard bark of a sound that sent Waylon staggering back a few steps. The reporter hid behind his hand for several long seconds, trembling and giggling through his teeth and his fingers before finally giving up.

In another context, it might have been the sign of a wonderful evening. In another context, he might have even laughed along, but right then, on the roof of that God-forsaken place, the sight of Miles throwing his head back and laughing had Waylon fighting the urge to bolt for the door and lock it behind him.

Unhinged. That was the word that jumped to Waylon's mind. It wasn't just the fact of the laughter that unnerved him so much – it was the sound of it. That... _noise_ sounded more like gagging or sobbing than laughter and Waylon realized with a painful twisting of his heart that the man was still crying, unable to get a full breath.

It took over a minute and a half for Miles to calm down and when he did, all the fight seemed to go out of him at once. He hit the ground hard and just sat there, gasping for breath. Waylon crouched at his side, one hand firmly between his shoulder blades.

Miles looked his age then. Waylon had forgotten just how young Miles was in the course of all the terror below them. Sure, 27 wasn't 'a kid' by most estimations, but it was way too young to be put through shit like this.

“I hate this,” Miles gasped, almost too soft to hear. There was an undercurrent of anger to his voice now. “I hate this. I hate this whole fucking place and I want to go _home_!”

“I know.” Waylon slid his hand over the torn jacket to wrap an arm around the reporter's shoulders. “I know. But we're gonna be okay. You, at least. You're too stubborn not to be.”

Miles huffed another laugh. It sounded bitter, but it was much calmer and Waylon relaxed a little. He looked up at the sculpture – the shrine bursting into full, brutal color as the sun crept higher – and tightened his grip on the reporter.

Lisa would have called it 'Dad Mode', him suddenly being so protective like this. But he hadn't lied. They were on the roof and sealed away from at least most of the inmates. The sun was up which meant they could get an idea of the land around the asylum. They were still together, still able to look out for each other.

Waylon did his best to walk that fine line between crushing hope beneath the heel of his boot and letting it strangle out his reason.

They had a chance. It might not be a good one, and it sure as hell wasn't a guarantee, but they had a chance.


End file.
